“I’ve been better. Sorry. I just need a moment . . . let’s go in and look at the sketch.”
We were quiet as Detective Kimball escorted me into the station, and had us buzzed past the heavily fortified reception area into a hallway with scuffed linoleum floors and brick walls. I followed the detective to an open-space area that had been carved into cubicles. I moved slowly. It was clear from what I’d heard that Brad had definitely been spotted. I controlled my rage, and thought about what I needed to say to the detective. If the sketch looked remotely like him I would need to say so, otherwise I would look suspicious when they did finally catch up with Brad. What I was desperately hoping for was a sketch that didn’t look like him at all, so that I could honestly say that I had no idea who I was looking at.
We reached the detective’s desk, in a cubicle framed by temporary partitions. He offered me a molded plastic chair to sit in and he settled onto a swivel chair with a padded seat. His desk was cluttered, but the piles of folders and loose paper seemed organized into distinct towers, each topped by a Post-it note in a different color. He pulled a folder off the top of one of the smaller towers and unfolded it. “Can you see okay here?” he asked. We were under a bright fluorescent light built into the low ceiling of polystyrene tiles, and I told him I could see fine. He slid out a piece of paper from the manila folder and twisted it so that I could see the sketch. It was a pretty good likeness of Brad—the thick neck, the black goatee, the dark eyes a little too close together under thick brows. His most distinctive feature—the thick hair and low hairline—was covered up by the baseball cap he wore. I could feel Detective Kimball’s eyes on me. I could sense his giddy anticipation.
“I don’t know,” I said, and jutted out my lower lip, studying the sketch to give myself another few seconds. But it was too close a likeness for me not to mention it. “You know who he looks like,” I said. “He looks like our contractor up in Maine. Brad Daggett. But Brad barely knew Ted, and he doesn’t even live in Boston, so . . .” I sat up and looked at the detective. “I don’t know if that’s helpful.”
“Brad Daggett?” the detective said. “Can you spell that for me.” He wrote it down. “What can you tell me about him?”
“Not much, really. I work with him closely, but I don’t know anything about him personally. I really can’t imagine any reason that Brad would have for coming down to see Ted, or for actually killing him. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“He was your contractor? Is it possible that your husband and he were having some dispute over money?”
“Not without my knowing about it. I was the only one who worked closely with Brad, and I was making most of the money decisions. No. Not a chance.”
“So, had you had any disputes with him? Any issues at all?”
“Small stuff here and there, like maybe he bought the wrong ceiling molding, but nothing important. He was totally professional, and he was being paid incredibly well. There’s just absolutely no reason I can think of that he would have anything against Ted.”
“Is he married?”
“Who, Brad? I don’t think so. He was married because I’m pretty sure he has kids, but he’s never mentioned a wife.”
“And was he ever inappropriate with you? Did he ever give you the impression that he . . . uh, that he found you attractive.” He stammered a little as he said it, and seemed uncomfortable, and I wondered briefly if his nervous energy was for real, or if it was an act.
“No. He might have, but if he did he never let me know. As I said, he was totally professional.” I looked again at the sketch, impressed by how much it looked like Brad, and pissed that Brad had been stupid enough to get spotted, then added, “The more I look at it, it still looks like him, but only superficially. It’s a man with a goatee, that’s all.”
“Okay.” Kimball put his finger on the sketch and swung it back toward him. “We’ll check him out. Do you have his number?”